


Walk On Water

by Jennyandthejets



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Concerned Brownie, Falling In Love, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romantic Freddie, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 08:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18340289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennyandthejets/pseuds/Jennyandthejets
Summary: The team knew... something. They knew that it was Connor's job to take care of Freddie and vice versa. In the locker room, they stuck with their individual routines but faltered into step with each other here and there. Fred's fingers would find the sharp curve of Connor's shoulder blades, a gentle brush as he passed by. The winger would slip to the floor and tie up Freddie's skates just the way he liked them. On ice, their eyes would wander to each other in moments of pause. Connor would smile and Fred would smirk and they'd play on.





	Walk On Water

“We done, guys?” Connor usually wasn't one to rush the interview process but after five failed games in a row, he wanted to shower and get home to bed. Lingering any longer in this room of crushed dreams and stale air seemed a poor decision. That night (thank god) the reporters took pity on him. One of them nodded and brought a hand down onto the redhead's shoulder. He offered up one last, award-winning smile before snagging a change of clothes and disappearing into the showers.

Connor was not the face of this franchise. Sitting third line with few goals to his name, he was a face in the sea of blue and white, an easy target for media to drag aside, grill about everything he had personally done wrong like Brownie wasn't already roiling it play by play through his head. Already a sub-par player, reporters had no problem listing off every mistake and asking which was the worst. Obviously, they hadn't scored. That was a fairly large mistake.

Three games in a row Connor had been plucked from the sweaty mass hanging around the locker room and made to do both pre and post-game interviews. It was exhausting turning it on when all he wanted to do was shut down. How could they still be interested in what he had to say? Connor had watched his interviews, had seen the same hopeful spark in his eyes during each talk pending game time. And then the aftermath of yet another failed attempt. Spark gone and repeating the words that Babs had reamed them out with the second they were off the ice. It was the same process each time. It was lucky they were mere minutes long or even he would have grown bored watching himself and turned them off.

Connor was beginning to wonder during the press of microphones into his face if he'd be able to conjure that spark again. Confidence shattered, it was becoming increasingly hard to feign hope for his career's future.

The water was comforting. Turned to the highest degree, it melted failure and stink off his skin. He could almost lose his train of thought submerged in the heat. Almost. Connor raised his head toward the stream, opening his mouth. The spray burned his lips and banished the thought of loss. It was just him and the water.

A gasp was yanked from his throat as his body went cold. Hand found elbow, plucking him from his fiery paradise. Connor turned sharp eyes on the nuisance. Freddie stared back, his expression harsh. He was fully clothed sans one suit jacket, sleeves of his collared shirt rolled up. The goalie glanced at the controls of the shower without saying anything before reaching into the stream. He hissed as boiling water met skin but pushed on, adjusting the temperature with deft fingers. Connor stared, saying nothing.

Freddie wiped his hands off on his dress pants before eyeing the redhead whose arm he still had in his grasp. “Going to hurt yourself,” he muttered. Connor let his eyes fall to the man's hand still holding tight and then back to the goalie, arching an eyebrow.

“'M fine.”

Freddie easily echoed the judgmental look and brought up the fingers of his free hand to run along bare shoulders. Connor shivered beneath the touch and made his first attempt to get his arm free, a weak attempt. The goalie held fast, digging his fingers into warm skin. An embarrassing noise trailed off the lips of the younger man. Luckily, his warmed chest was already red, hiding the spreading flush.

“Got told that you were trying to drown yourself in here.”

It was maybe the truth. “They're watching me in the shower. Maybe you should be more concerned about them.”

“Concerned about you.”

Connor considered asking his fellow redhead what exactly there was to be concerned about but Freddie had never been a man of many words. He would just stare at Connor with that dumb, adorable look on his face until he started squirming. They both had a solid grasp on why they were standing together in the shower anyhow.

“Dealing with the same thing, aren't we?” the winger asked, his voice quiet. The chill was beginning to set in. He edged towards the water but found that Frederik kept up his grip. “Freddie...” The goalie inched into Connor's space. He could have moved, either to inch closer or pull away. But his energy had abandoned him in that final interview. “You'll get wet.” It was a weak protest but not untrue as stray drops were already hitting the sleeve of his button down. The goalie pressed forward then, thin material of his shirt sticking to a damp chest. Connor gave up the game and leaned in, feeling himself go boneless.

“Come over.” It was a command. Connor took a breath, a lump settling in the back of his throat.

“I can't,” he whispered, his voice pitched.

This had been a thing for a few months now. A Thing. After a particularly rough night, one in which Connor had watched Freddie be pulled and benched, he'd offered himself up as comfort. The intention was a drinking companion. Perhaps a dinner guest. A bottle of wine and too little space between them on the couch had led to roaming hands. Connor had climbed out of his goalie's bed the next morning, found his clothes, and departed figuring that they would never talk about this moment again. It was friends helping each other get through something.

Except Connor couldn't deny the way his stomach flipped every time he saw Freddie after that (had been denying for months that that was a thing that had been happening awhile) or the way he wanted to hold on just one second after everyone else had let go at the end of a successful game. If feelings were going to set in, there was only one proper way to deal with them. Avoidance. It was a game in addition to the one he already played to avoid his goalie, limiting celebrations and cutting out early on nights in which Freddie joined his usual group. The two spent weeks not talking about it, dancing around each other.

It was Freddie who cornered him, stuffing the smaller player into a corner of a random equipment room after a particularly exhausting practice. Again, words hadn't been his prime mean of communication. He'd stared his younger teammate down, that ever-present look in his eyes. Both judgmental and caring all in the same clear gaze. Connor had melted, his legs already weak from the bag skate. Opposite his goalie, Connor was a talker. The words had spilled from him, most of them apology based for having feelings he wasn't permitted to have.

On the verge of spilling his entire life story, Fred took his usual approach. No words. Just a grip of fingers on Connor's chin and a deep kiss that had his knees going limp beneath him. It was fair to call that their first kiss considering that Connor couldn't remember most of the ones they had shared that steamy night. Their first had been followed by another. And another as they made out in the quiet equipment room until laughter outside the door had startled them apart. That was the first time Freddie had leaned in and whispered, “Come over” before departing the room and leaving his right winger to get his legs of jelly beneath him before following him out.

They still hadn't talked about what exactly they were, what sort of title they should be giving to whatever it was they were doing. Connor had considered a few choices. Friends with benefits would be fitting had it not been more than sex. Some nights, they curled up on the couch with Connor in Fred's lap and watched movies until their eyes grew heavy. More than once now, the goalie had carried him to bed. It was embarrassing honestly. A drive to spend more time in the gym putting on muscle. These sexless nights were confusing but not unwanted. In fact, he looked forward to them most often.

The team knew... something. They knew that it was Connor's job to take care of Freddie and vice versa. In the locker room, they stuck with their individual routines but faltered into step with each other here and there. Fred's fingers would find the sharp curve of Connor's shoulder blades, a gentle brush as he passed by. The winger would slip to the floor and tie up Freddie's skates just the way he liked them. On ice, their eyes would wander to each other in moments of pause. Connor would smile and Fred would smirk and they'd play on.

It was a relationship but dating still didn't sound right. Neither had asked the other out. They'd shared the kiss and called it a day. Fred usually did the inviting with Connor asking permission to stop over every so often. They didn't refuse each other, both of them understanding how much they needed the company of their companion.

That night was different.

Body aching and mind weary from yet another defeat, Connor wanted only to go home. To lay in his own bed. To be alone with his weakness. Freddie had played a great game. Letting in two shots of the forty-six. Their own twenty-one shots on goal were pitiful. Their goalie was the star of their team, the reason they had any hope of being a contender. Tonight, he couldn't drag Freddie down with him.

Connor brought up his free hand and gently pressed Freddie away, fingers digging into the other's shoulder to make the action firm. The hand stayed connected but the goalie took a step back. “Marner wanted to go out, right? You should go.”

“I don't-”

“You never want to go.” Finally, he gently plucked Freddie's hand from his arm and pushed it away until it settled limply at his side. Connor smiled warmly at him. “Just gonna finish up here and go home. You enjoy yourself.”

Freddie was frowning. His mouth opened as if he wanted to protest and then closed again. The redheads eyed each other, Connor noting the damp spots that had gone see through on Fred's shirt. “Make sure you change your shirt, yeah?” With that, he stepped into the stream again, making sure to turn completely away from his goalie, doubtful that he could take whatever look was being thrown his way.

Connor soaped up and rinsed his hair before turning around again. Half of him was pleased to see Freddie gone. The other half was a dismal ache in the pit of his chest. He finished his shower quickly and was not surprised to be one of the last to exit the locker room. The parking garage bordered on empty when Connor finally climbed into the truck that Zach spent most of his time insisting wasn't dainty enough for him (fuck him) and started for home.

A late night snack and a quick cool down routine in his humble workout room were the only things to precede Connor crawling into bed and pulling the blankets over his head. The thoughts swarmed and his calves ached. He pressed it away, willing everything to go numb. And eventually, sleep took him.

Fuck the fucking door and whoever had invented fucking doorbells. Connor paid no mind to the illuminated clock next to his bed, afraid that the current time would only further his irritation. It was still pitch black out meaning that it was too late. Or too early. He dragged a hand down his face as the high pitched ringing of the bell continued to sound through his small condo.

“Alright, alright. Give me a second.” Connor clutched at his head as he yanked open his front door, surprised it didn't come right off its hinges. “What!” The word was snapped, perhaps harsher than his visitor deserved but they were the ones intruding on Connor's night of self-pity and sleep the day before he was due for a non-optional practice. It'd be optional if they could pull out a win but... here they were.

Of course, it was Freddie on his doorstep. Who else would it have been? Well, the possibility of a drunk Zach Hyman was always a good one but his parents were in town, keeping him well away from the bar scene. That left Freddie. Except the redheaded goalie had never been to Connor's place. Not once. They always spent their time together at Freddie's or in various hotel rooms on the road. Connor hadn't even known that Freddie knew where he lived. His place was small and inferior compared to the goalie's residence. And his place in Toronto was rivaled by the beach house he owned in California. There was probably some fancy house back in his home country too. Connor, with his limited contract, wasn't living it up too large. His place wasn't anything to sneer at but it was a few grand short of the fabulous place that his goalie had taken him back to time and time again. The salary of a fourth line player to a number one ranking goalie. He wanted to close the door on Freddie and pretend that he had gotten the address wrong.

Freddie pushed inside before he could give the idea much thought.

“Come in?” It was a dumb thing to say but Connor was working with whatever few hours of sleep he had just gotten and was still trying to get his bearings about him. He rubbed at his arms, distinctly aware that he was in boxers only while Freddie was still one jacket short of a full suit. He hadn't changed his shirt. The material was, regrettably, no longer translucent. “Did you go drinking in your suit?”

“I didn't go drinking.”

“Oh?” Connor followed after Freddie, not surprised by the admission. The goalie stepped into the living room first and then shook his head, retreating into the small hallway again and heading for the only other prominent doorway downstairs. He seemed satisfied when he discovered the kitchen and immediately started prying open cabinets. The winger watched, his exhaustion toying with what sort of emotion he was supposed to be feeling watching this. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Why wouldn't you come over? I wanted you to come over.” Freddie spun around suddenly, clutching a glass in his hand. Connor let a questioning eyebrow rise into his hairline.

To put it kindly, Andersen sucked at media. He'd passed it off first as a language barrier, then anxiety being away from home and dealing with a new team but those excuses had quickly fallen flat when the goalie's grammar had rivaled that of his fellow players. Still, with his lack of wordage, Freddie's interviews were often littered with umm's and lapses of speech. Being in his starring role, he was often asked to take on the media but had wriggled his way out more than once for lack of eloquent answers.

Freddie's question seemed right in line with his interview material with one major difference. There was a lack of hesitation. There were no incessant pauses or fillers. His eyes were sharp, maybe a touch bleary from what was likely exhaustion. He had said he wasn't drinking. But it seemed clear that he wasn't sleeping either. Connor sauntered forward slowly.

“Where'd you go then?” He bypassed the question of his own refusal, not wanting to admit to Freddie that he'd been thinking about the goalie's well-being in favor of his own self-deprecation. Connor brought up a hand and absentmindedly ran his fingers along a clothed arm. Freddie let out a deep sigh. He glanced up and found the goalie watching his fingers, his mouth sagging. “You okay?”

Freddie sniffed and closed his mouth, eyes following suit. He nodded and let out another deep breath. “Fine. Fine.”

Connor's concern was setting in. He boxed Freddie into the corner of the counter. When the goalie finally opened his eyes—they had gone glassy—Connor was frowning at him. Though the goalie had a few inches on him, the winger was pressing up trying to get a good look at the other man's face. “Hey... what's going on?”

Another sigh. “Zach gave me your address. And I just drove around and... uh.” He groaned and ran a hand down his face. The exhaustion was clear. Connor peeked at the clock. It was four am. Connor had stumbled in the door just before two.

“You just been driving for two hours?” he mumbled, bringing up a hand to stroke the man's face. This was too tender for Connor having pushed him away just hours before. But exhaustion crushed all barriers. Freddie leaned into the touch.

“Yeah. Just... wanted you.” His eyes had closed again, taking in the sensation of Connor's fingers dancing across smooth skin. He wasn't sure if Freddie just couldn't manage a proper beard or if he preferred the shaven, baby-faced look. Connor figured he would like it both ways.

“You should have gone out. Played a good game. Drink couldn't hurt before bed.”

Eyes opened, startlingly clear next to the exhausted vibe the rest of the man was putting off. Connor took a step back in surprise, withdrawing his hands. Deft fingers came up to wrap around his wrist. Like a glove finding a puck. God, Freddie played this game so well.

“You don't get it, do you? I want to be with you. Want to... to celebrate with you.”

Connor smiled sadly and glanced at his feet. “Not much worth celebrating in my case.”

“Hey.”

One word was all Freddie needed and he had Connor's attention as he turned his chin up again. Warm lips met his. He could have melted, however cliché it might be. Freddie did this to him, took what he wanted before Connor ever realized that it was exactly what he needed.

“You wanna go to the bedroom?” Connor panted into his mouth, starting to understand what his goalie meant. Until the man threw his head back and groaned.

“No! I mean, yes but... you're not getting it, Connor.” The words were becoming a struggle. Freddie already resisted long strings of speech and here he was in his exhaustive state trying to get... something across. He opened his mouth but closed it again with an additional groan. Connor looked on curiously, this situation new to both of them it seemed.

Freddie kissed him again.

“Bedroom,” Connor repeated again when they parted.

“You-I want more.”

“I think the bedroom would be better than the kitch-”

“I want to date you.”

“...oh.”

Connor took a step back at that one, his brow furrowing. Freddie was breathing hard. Though he'd imagined it was the kiss, perhaps it was this brewing confession. Had he heard him correctly? Dating. That was interesting.

Connor would be lying if he said that he had never given thought to the idea of dating Freddie but it was a concept that he'd ruled out long ago. They weren't exclusive. The winger hadn't figured this out until he'd spotted a petite blonde tucked beneath the goalie's arm after a particularly gratifying away game. The second jealousy had flared was the second that Connor abandoned thought of a relationship, reminding himself that he had no right to such feelings. When they returned to Toronto, Freddie had sent him that tantalizing smirk across the locker room and the younger redhead had followed him home as per the usual. It was the type of situation he could live with. And while his side conquests had been few, he was fine when the topic of exclusivity stayed off the table.

That was, perhaps, the problem. Connor had settled into being wanted only sometimes. He liked the routine they'd built together as any good hockey player would. Changing things now meant opening himself up, the very thing he'd been fighting tooth and nail. It was self-preservation.

“You... don't want that?” the goalie finally asked quietly, filling the silence. His expression was sad, perhaps disbelieving like he couldn't imagine that someone would ever say no to him. And he was right! Connor looked at Freddie and saw everything he wanted. It should have been a no brainer. They would date, label themselves, kiss behind closed doors, and be partners in this game of life. It sounded amazing. He wanted to jump in head first and not look back.

But hockey wasn't all fun and games and Connor had some wonderful people to thank for instilling a sense of business in him alongside his craft. This seemed an amazing opportunity but what happened if it didn't work out? Would they kill the chemistry, Connor's friends against Freddie's, overlaps a thing of the past? Would he be hesitant to defend the man who had broken his heart? Perhaps Freddie would let in shots out of pure sabotage when Connor's line was on the ice. Or, on the other side of the equation, what if their relationship was amazing and beautiful? But the second Freddie got hurt, Connor failed to play at his best. Or Freddie put himself in harm's way for his boyfriend's benefit, compromising the team's play. Everything could go wrong. Even if the relationship went so right.

Being a Toronto Maple Leaf is what Connor had worked for his entire life. Hockey was at the forefront of his brain because that was what his life amounted to currently. He'd always told himself that there would be time after he was no longer able to hold his own on the ice to date, to marry, to have kids, to settle down. To do all the domestic things his mom sometimes wished he was doing instead of being a professional athlete. There was time.

Or there had been time. He'd never counted on Freddie in his life. Freddie who made his stomach do flips. Freddie who could kiss him into submission. Freddie who was standing in his kitchen making Connor's heartache by standing before him looking so sad.

Connor brought up a hand, stroking the goalie's cheek softly. He let out a shaky breath as the man leaned into the touch, eyes falling closed. He had to be exhausted. “Let me take you to bed. To sleep. We can... we can talk about this later.”

“Connor, I need-”

“You need sleep,” Connor interrupted, pulling the still empty cup from the goalie's hand and laying it on the counter behind him. He'd amassed a collection of water bottles directly by his bedside to encourage hydration after drinking and prevent hangovers. Freddie could survive with one of those. He tried not to think about what exactly it was that the other man needed as he slipped an arm around him and gently nudged his goalie out of the kitchen. He went easily, trying to take in his surroundings as they walked. “I'll give you the tour in the morning, yeah?”

A nod. Clearly, the man was dead on his feet. In fact, they both would have a foot in the grave come tomorrow's practice.

Since their first time, Connor had never been embarrassed to lead or follow Fred into a bedroom. But it had always been a nondescript hotel room or Freddie's palace of a bedroom with a king that, seemingly, could have held eight people should they ever have arrived at the orgy stage. Which Connor was definitely not interested in! Nor his goalie companion if he was talking relationship status.

Still, leading Freddie into his own bedroom was a different story. One corner featured a collection of hockey gear that he'd been planning on dealing with after practice, scattered across the floor with sticks having toppled over and various padding spilling out from a bag that had seen better days. Water bottles were haphazardly piled next to the right side of the bed, his preferred side, the first thing he'd see when he woke up to encourage water consumption. Even athletes had their failings when it came to boozed out nights.

There was an overflowing hamper and a scattering of DVD cases that had come off their rack during his search for entertainment and never found their way back onto it. The bed looked distinctly slept in. Which... made sense considering that Connor had been sleeping in it not minutes before but the idea still had his cheeks burning. He hadn't been expecting company.

Arm wound loosely around Freddie's hips, Connor managed a small glance in his companion's direction. He was smiling. A loopy smile that spoke of his exhaustion but also of his fondness for being in bedrooms with Connor. The red of embarrassment faded to the red of a pleased blush and the two pushed on. His bed was a queen and lacked the luxury of Egyptian cotton sheets and cooling pillows but it was a godsend after a rough game. He'd happily tossed himself into it the past few nights, eager to be done with road trips and put the collection of losses behind him.

Freddie seemed to take the hint of the collection of pillows piled on one side and crawled onto the left. Connor leaned against the corner of the mattress, taking his time to appreciate the sight of Freddie in his bed for once. The goalie appreciated that sight of Connor regularly sans clothing. Speaking of...

“You'll wrinkle your suit. You want sweats? Or shorts?”

“Don't you usually wear my clothes?” the man muttered, immersing himself in pillows he had stolen from Connor's side.

The winger smiled to himself, moving to dig through his dresser. “I think I might have some stuff of yours here.”

A few minutes later and Connor had coaxed Freddie out of his remaining suit pieces and hung them up on the back of the door before outfitting him in Leaf approved workout gear. He'd only managed to produce a pair of Freddie's shorts. His t-shirt was Connor's. The goalie had clothed Connor in his number time and time again. It sent a slight thrill through him to do the same. Freddie had refused a pair of boxers, leaving the winger to rinse them quickly in the sink before tossing the garment into the dryer. When he finally returned, his own exhaustion catching up with him, the lump in his bed was snoring softly. It had been nothing short of surprise at first snore but he'd since grown used to it, the fondness kicking in liking Pavlov himself had intended.

How nice it'd be for Freddie to find space in his bed every night.

Connor would have lingered alongside the idea if the clock weren't ticking down. As it was, practice called and the alarm on his phone still resting on his dresser was set. He set it for ten minutes later than he normally would, pretending that it would make any proper difference. If Fred had never made it home, his gear should all still be packed into his car. And Connor had more than enough Leaf stamped workout wear to outfit him. All that was left was to tuck himself in. The two shared spoon responsibilities and Connor quickly took up position as the bigger that night.

A slightly smaller bed forced the two closer together but there seemed to be nothing wrong with that. Freddie, whether partially awake or subconsciously, arched so that their hips were plastered together. Connor hooked his chin over the man's shoulder and let himself imagine. Images of fantasy led way to dreams and soon sleep settled over them both.

Maybe, Connor thought as sleep took him, maybe he could have this.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before last year's playoffs. >.> Welp. But my favorite pair of redheads are making a repeat appearance so it's a-okay. Honestly, this was supposed to continue but I like leaving my stories ambiguous (okay, I'm just lazy but I have other things going on!). As stated before, I have a fair few stories sitting unfinished on my laptop and I'm trying to get them finished and posted. At least three more feature the redheaded pair.


End file.
